These Single Occasions
by Experimental
Summary: These single occasions we seem to share . . . A series of vignettes concerning Andrew Waltfeld and Martin DaCosta. Slash and non. 6: No sugar tonight: They brought no flowers for the dead. 7: Once and future king: Metaphors must suffice.
1. Commitment

These stories came about in response to the serious vacuum of DaCosta ficage out there, so as is the natural tendency of such things with me—here's your fair warning—_there will be slash_. Therefore, fics with slashy content will be marked as such for those wishing to avoid it, and those who aren't are free to read into the rest however they want. :) Likewise with spoilers. 

Both Original Recipe SEED and Destiny will be covered. C&C appreciated, drabbles though these single occasions may be. Just don't count on much continuity between each one. May they please the voles. 

. 

Title: Commitment   
Characters: Andrew Waltfeld, Martin DaCosta   
Words: 863   
Warnings: slight spoilers for Destiny   
Summary: A cup of coffee is a commitment.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" 

"Absolutely." 

A slight catch in his voice betrayed his true feelings, however. 

The observation deck of the _Eternal_ was empty at this hour but for the two of them; and in the silence that pervaded the space as he stood there still under his commander's scrutinizing gaze, DaCosta could hear the ever-present, monotonous drone of the ship's engines propelling them steadily through space. He met that gaze boldly, some old adage about how one mustn't stare down big cats rising to the fore of his mind. But he would not back down from his decision of only a few moments ago, as impulsive as it now seemed. 

"I just want you to understand what you're getting yourself into." In one hand—his new hand—Commander Walfteld held an insulated cup, his fingers placed firmly and almost possessively on the rim of the lid. "A cup of coffee is a commitment, DaCosta," he said with gravity. "This is not something you can go into on a mere whim. You can't simply decide halfway through that you don't like it. When you have a cup of coffee, you're in it for the long haul, from the first sip." 

DaCosta could not quite keep a smile from tugging at one corner of his mouth. There was a humor in Waltfeld's tone that most anyone else would probably miss for its dryness, but at the same time he was perfectly serious. He had said the same thing about scars once: that the choice to keep them was a materialization of their bearer's commitment. 

Was that why he still bore his own, at the expense of his sight? 

"I think I can handle it," DaCosta said. 

"You think? Thinking isn't good enough, my friend. This isn't just a matter of mature taste. This cup represents a sacred bond—" 

"Just give me the damn cup. Sir." 

Waltfeld's good eye narrowed as he hesitated a final time. Without a word to indicate the doubt he must have harbored, he handed the cup over. It had a foreign weight in DaCosta's hand despite the mundaneness of the physical object itself. It was a symbol of dedication, a transaction of trust. 

Then, as though the previous interchange had never occurred, the rakish smile returned to Waltfeld's lips, setting DaCosta, whose stomach felt tense from anxiety and the absence of gravity, at ease. 

"To what shall we drink?" Waltfeld said, raising his own cup in a gesture of camaraderie. 

"To my first cup of joe?" DaCosta laughed. 

Waltfeld made a motion of concurrence. 

"To your return to the _Eternal_. . . . To Miss Clyne." 

"To peace." 

That was somewhat unexpected, but DaCosta was happy to raise his own cup in a toast: "To peace." 

The awkward sound of hard plastic gently hitting hard plastic sealed the deal. They put their lips to their respective straws in tandem. 

One thing to be said for the conveniences of space travel, the aroma of the brew hardly penetrated the air until the flow was released. There was nothing to stagnate as there had been in the hot air of Banadiya. Only the pure taste of black, unadulterated coffee on DaCosta's tongue: hot, bitter, and sensuously alien. 

Waltfeld closed his eye as he savored the layers of flavor that only he could distinguish so well. "Excellent," he said at last after a few sounds of appreciation, and looked at the nondescript cup as though seeing right through it to the individual grains of the beans themselves. "There was a reason the bedouin offered coffee to their guests returning from a leave of absence, rather than some humbler beverage, and I doubt it was just the caffeine. Can you think of anything more welcoming than a cup of freshly brewed?" 

Involuntarily, DaCosta made a face. "It's terrible." 

A hurt look barely noticeable crossed Waltfeld's own. 

"Don't hold anything back on my account," he riposted sardonically. "Tell me exactly what you think." 

"I'm sorry, sir. It must be an acquired taste after all." 

"Well, to be fair, I don't think coffee was intended to be drunk through a straw." 

"At least that masks the smell." 

"Aroma, DaCosta. Coffee has an _aroma_, not a _smell_. And you wondered why I was reluctant to do this for you." 

DaCosta smiled as he took another sip, watching his commander over the lid as he feigned offense. As expected, the second taste was no better than the first. 

"You don't have to feel obligated to finish it," Waltfeld told him gently. 

"I will, though," DaCosta assured him. 

A rare look of surprise, however mild, came over Waltfeld's features. 

"You said yourself, Commander. This is a commitment. I plan on seeing it through to the end." 

Waltfeld turned away from him at that, his attention taking him to the starfield outside the window. Someone might have said just that a long time ago, DaCosta realized only then. The awkward silence seemed to support that. However, he meant it no less than that someone had. 

It must have showed. The appreciation in Waltfeld's slight smile when he turned back confirmed it. 

"You've already proven that to me, DaCosta." 


	2. Moving Underground, slash

Title: Moving Underground   
Characters: Waltfeld/DaCosta   
Words: 694   
Warnings: implied slash   
Summary: There is life moving beneath even the deepest desert.

* * *

To many the open desert was a necessary evil. ZAFT officers sent from their comfortable homes in space to the sympathetic territories of North Africa complained of the relentless heat and the brutal emptiness, and counted the days until they would be sent home. They had told him one could not understand the desert until he had lived there. Then they had told him he was crazy to want to stay, cynically dubbing him the Desert Tiger, and he had smiled and said nothing. They would not change their opinion if he defended its majestic dualism, its eternal purity and mutability; its surface constantly changing with the wind, and the lifeblood moving underground in its jealously guarded aquifers. So he said nothing, and was content to remain in everyone's eyes the somewhat eccentric commander of the _Lesseps_. After all, it was this kind of landscape that demanded a somewhat eccentric leader. 

Parked on a bluff overlooking the distant foothills, Andrew Waltfeld surveyed the ancient landscape in which even now rebel factions were plotting. That thought did not shake his calm or his confidence, however. This was his domain and they knew it—his ocean on which his navy of mobile suits could come and go as they please, striking where they will. He would be here as long as the opposition was—beyond any sense of honor and glory, vigilant, dutiful. 

"We have plenty to work with," he said at one point, puncturing the white noise of wind and sand. "Let's head back to camp." 

With those words from his commander, Martin DaCosta started the jeep. They were rolling down the sandy hill almost as soon as the engines had rumbled to life. Lowering his binoculars slowly, though he was hardly concentrating on what was before them any longer, Waltfeld turned to watch his lieutenant, whose dark face, partly hidden beneath his cap, showed no expression except a calm focus on the terrain ahead. His hands and feet compensated naturally for the bumps and dips in the ground, keeping a fast and steady pace despite the jolting of the car and the wind in his face. 

It was twilight time, and the stars were out in full force over the deep, untamed desert, the dunes of which glowed in the dim remnants of sunlight, now pale echoes of the imposing bronze hillocks they appeared in the daytime. The night air had a chill to it as it blew through Waltfeld's hair and made the upturned collar of his long coat whip feebly against the side of his face. It was a welcome change from the day's painstaking reconnaissance in the heat and long stretches of boredom that even the most exquisite cup of coffee could not fix for long. These were the moments, when he had begun to doubt, that reminded him why he had fallen in love with the Sahara in the first place. Miles away from the _Lesseps_ and even farther from Banadiya, he felt once again that unexpected but not unwelcome craving—perhaps in response to, perhaps born out of the ennui of the battlefield that drains men. And throws them indiscriminately together. 

Purely on a whim, he laid the palm of his hand on DaCosta's thigh. It was not a caress of any sort, just a heavy, immobile touch that might have been accidental if such a physical gap did not separate the two men. It was enough to send a clear signal. Like the cat from which his namesake was derived, he waited with his senses tense for a reaction. DaCosta showed no sign of surprise. His driving did not alter, nor did his gaze veer from the road. As usual, he neither made any effort to protest the touch or ignore it, but nor did he visibly acknowledge it. Only a slight flex of muscle under Waltfeld's hand indicated some discreet sort of recognition, but even that could have been a misconstrued movement for working the gas pedal. 

Still, the thick weave of the uniform slacks and the warmth of flesh beneath it was a powerful tectonic force on the Desert Tiger. There was life, there, moving underground. 


	3. Wakeup Call, slash

Title: Wake-up Call   
Characters: Waltfeld/DaCosta, Andy/Aisha   
Words: 888   
Warnings: implied slash and infidelity   
Summary: Decisions made in the loneliness of night feel different come morning.

* * *

The alarm in the clock in the alcove went off. Instead of an annoying buzzer, a local station came through mid-note. The call to morning prayer, kept to a low volume. Yet loud enough in the silence of the room. Louder than the steady hum of the ship's engines and ventilation. 

Waltfeld reached up blindly and found the off button with his fingers. He found the light and switched it to a low setting. He stretched his limbs slowly, not wanting to wake his companion in the bed that was barely made to hold two. 

DaCosta did not stir. He slept on his stomach, his face sunk into the pillow facing the wall, an untroubled expression on it. One naked, well-shaped arm curled around his head like a shield. The sheet rose and fell with his slow, deep breathing. There was something vulnerable about him in this state, something he never allowed the others to see when he was awake. Something Waltfeld caught only a shadow of when DaCosta flashed him a rare smile. 

Brushing his lips over DaCosta's shoulder and breathing in, Waltfeld smelled the dust of the desert that seemed to never wash off and the unapologetic, masculine acridity of sweat—so different from the scents of a woman's skin. As different as the thick dregs at the bottom of the pot from a glass of fine wine. Both made one's senses swim, but only the wine had the power to ruin a man. 

The videophone beside the bed issued a quiet ring. Waltfeld sat up quickly and reached over his lieutenant to press the audio-only answer button. "Waltfeld." 

"Commander? A call for you from Banadiya, sir," came the reply of one of his crew aboard the _Lesseps_. 

The pressing of warm skin against him suddenly made him feel exposed. Even in these private quarters, the events of last night, so rational and mutual before, seemed impulsive and selfish on this end of an open line. 

A moment went by without his response. 

"Sir?" 

"Tell her to hold. I'll be there in a second." 

The connection severed, he eased himself out of bed. DaCosta did stir at that, his dark brows furrowing and relaxing, but he said nothing. Waltfeld threw on trousers and an undershirt, entirely conscious of the rustle of clothes as he did so. However, even if DaCosta did wake at the disturbance, he would not have said much. There would have been no protest in his cool manner. 

Safely outside in his office, the door closed behind him, Waltfeld sat down behind the desk and pressed the receiver button. 

Her face appeared on the screen, her eyes downcast as she waited for him to answer her call. He relished that moment when he could gaze at her unnoticed. Her fair features signaled the break of day in his body in absence of a window or sunlight, and he wanted only to bask in them. 

She finally noticed he had answered, and by then it was too late to hide his goofy grin. She beamed. 

"Hey, sleepy head," she said, her rich voice cracking slightly. 

"Hey." 

"Did I wake you? I thought you were usually up by now." 

He shrugged. His tiredness must have shown on his face. "I haven't had my fix yet." 

"You're losing your edge, Andy," she said facetiously. 

"A momentary lapse, I assure you." 

She hummed, as though undecided over whether to believe him. He did not care which. At the moment, he only wanted to see her eyes: so deep and dark and unabashedly warm. 

"I miss you," she said. "When are you expected back in Banadiya?" 

"We're on schedule to finish here by Thursday afternoon. Although, just between you and me, I was planning on our moving out early and surprising Aisha—you won't tell her I said that, of course." 

Aisha smiled, lowering her eyes momentarily. "Of course." 

He found himself uncharacteristically silent, lost in the oasis of her smile. Merely a mirage at this distance. 

Her smile turned sardonic under that gaze. 

"Well, I can see you need your caffeine." 

"Shall I call you later?" 

She nodded in such a way as to suggest she did not care though he knew she did. "Sure. You can keep me abreast of things." A timid, "Later, then." 

No awkward I love you's. No promises to risk breaking. No step toward a sense of finality. 

"Later." 

She hung up. The screen told him he had been disconnected. He let it stay that way awhile, as though just in case her image should return, before severing the connection on his side as well, and rising to put on a pot of coffee. 

DaCosta was already half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the mattress when he stepped back into the room. His brief, "Morning, sir," though sincere, lacked any of the intimacy of the night before. 

He didn't avoid Waltfeld's eyes, like some other young officer might be tempted to do. The only trace of discomfort he showed was in the raking of his fingers through his short burgundy hair. Maintaining his cool composure even under the pressure of the elephant in the room, DaCosta understood the situation without need of words, without verbal promise of discretion. 

Just one of the things Waltfeld liked about him. 


	4. Evidence 01

Title: Evidence-01   
Characters: DaCosta, Aisha   
Words: 1168   
Warnings: none   
Summary: He couldn't explain why he was unable to bear her radiant smile.

* * *

The grand offices of their headquarters in Banadiya still showed evidence of their governmental nature before the arrival of ZAFT's forces. The rich, dark wood desk that stood before the windows and the hand-woven rug on the carpet were impeccably kept and masked their true age. The books on the shelves, many ordinary hardcovers with torn or wrinkled dust covers, even more limited editions with Moroccan leather binding, were a ragtag bunch of war memoirs and field journals, epics and classic philosophical treatises, and scientific nonfiction. Every time DaCosta came to one that he thought fit his commander's personality perfectly, the next one would contradict him. It was impossible to distinguish which came with the office and which with its current resident. 

The fireplace mantel was a different story. Like the desk, uncluttered but for its orderly array of coffee paraphernalia, it became a showcase for personal objects. A few photographs of people in a past DaCosta had not been privy to, and in the center a whalestone. 

It was merely a replica of the real thing, a miniature of the awesome Evidence-01 that loomed over the Supreme Council back in PLANT; but a very good replica, without seams or inaccuracies, that looked like real shale and fossilized bone even up close. Its place of prominence was not lost on him. As a Coordinator, he had been raised to see this proof of a mysterious, alien creature as a symbol of his own existence. He wondered if the same had been true to the commander; if that explained its presence here, or if there was some deeper significance. 

DaCosta heard the door open and turned, startled but not letting on. 

It was Aisha. Hair done loosely up, her outfit managing to be both clingy and free, modest and revealing. 

"I'm sorry," she said when their eyes met. "For a moment I thought you were Andy." 

Andy. No one called the commander that but her, not even the female officers. It represented some privilege that no one else had—a privilege that felt like a lack of respect to him, and that he envied deep in some irrational and human part of his soul. More than that, looking around at the things gathered here, the snapshot of a life that was the office seemed to belong more to an Andy than the Commander Waltfeld he knew. 

And suddenly he felt very out of place. 

"Commander Waltfeld went into town for a while," DaCosta told her coolly, as though it weren't apparent by the otherwise unoccupied room. 

"And he didn't take you with him?" 

He might have imagined the iciness in her own response; but she turned her eyes downcast for a moment as though regretting something. She tried more amiably: "Did he say where he was going?" 

"He never does. But I can guess." 

"So can I. That cafe in the Al Borak market." 

"Either that or for kebabs on Main." 

"How pathetic. He's either the most predictable man alive, or we know him too well for our own good." 

She smiled, and he met it awkwardly. "I don't think they'd call him the Desert Tiger if he read like a book—" 

Cutting himself off, DaCosta looked away and back at the whalestone. He couldn't explain why, but he was suddenly unable to bear that radiant smile. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aisha leave the doorway and come to stand beside him. Keeping an uncomfortable space-cushion between them, she too pretended to study the stone. 

"Have you ever seen the real thing?" he asked her. "Evidence Zero-One, I mean." 

"Once, a long time ago. My father took me to see it." 

"It must have been impressive." 

"It was so tremendous my brain didn't know quite what to do with it," she said with a fondness DaCosta was rarely privy to. She tilted her head, pretending to study it closer. "But these days it seems every school kid has seen it once." 

"I never have." 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt the blood rush to his face, though he knew it probably didn't show. He never seemed to be able to carry a conversation with her without messing it up, putting his foot in his mouth. . . . 

"You don't like me much, do you, Lieutenant DaCosta?" she said without warning. 

He was taken aback. He looked over. "Pardon?" 

"It's all right." But of course it wasn't. "I know the BuCUE pilots don't approve of my position here. I'm no stranger to being treated like an outsider." 

"No, that . . . isn't it." 

That wasn't it at all. Quite the opposite. But how could he explain that disloyal thoughts sprang up in the back of his mind if he looked at her too long? That it was best if the two of them simply avoided one another? 

"Commander Waltfeld isn't like other officers I've known," he said instead. "He surrounds himself with only the best. If he keeps you as close as he does, he obviously trusts you and your ability. And I trust him, so . . ." 

That didn't come out sounding the way he meant it to; however, he could not dwell on whatever Aisha might choose to believe about him. 

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Then, I guess that's one thing you and I have in common." 

"How's that?" 

Aisha looked at him as though amazed she even needed to explain. "He'll only have you drive him, he leaves you at the helm of his ship without a second thought. . . . You've probably never known many officers who'd put that much trust in their lieutenants." 

She clasped her hands behind her back and turned away from the mantel in a girlish gesture, dropping onto the sofa beside the armrest that was closest to him. "Do you want to know what I think?" she said in a tone of voice that was suddenly warm and flirtatious, as though she were about to fill him in on some conspiracy. 

It was effective at clearing the air between them. He smiled as he turned to face her. 

"I think you remind Andy a little of himself," she revealed. 

DaCosta exhaled in place of a laugh. "We're nothing alike." He wasn't the philosopher, the diplomat that Waltfeld was, and certainly not the mobile suit pilot. True, if he thought hard enough about it, some of the commander's mannerisms, his insubordinate way of speaking, had rubbed off on DaCosta since his assignment to Banadiya. However . . . 

Aisha leaned her head back. "I don't know about that. You haven't known him as long as I have," she said like there was no arguing with her. 

She looked so beautiful like that, in her confident pose with her elbow draped territorially over the armrest—like some distant and alien goddess of war in repose. The lingering smile felt stale on DaCosta's lips as he turned his eyes away, reminding himself she was not his to worship. 


	5. Disobedience

Title: Disobedience  
Characters: DaCosta, Waltfeld  
Words: 2001   
Warnings: language, spoilers post-episode 21  
Summary: Waltfeld wakes up in Gibraltar.

* * *

It was a waiting game now, the hours of sitting beside the commander's bed because at any moment he might come out of it. The worst was over—at least for DaCosta, but he was not the one who had survived a LaGOWE explosion and major surgery, nor had he lost an arm and eye to it. Yet somehow, he knew, Waltfeld would understand that in a way he couldn't if their situations had been reversed. His loss would come as a shock at first, but DaCosta was confident the commander's rational personality and sardonic wit would kick in to overcome it.

He had been running on little sleep. Between planning the return to space and keeping himself abreast of every improvement, however minuscule, in Waltfeld's health, he found his eyelids growing heavier by the moment as he sat there in the uncomfortable chair, the steady beeping of the vitals monitor slowly putting him to sleep.

Like a reoccurring nightmare, he recalled their last battle again, and how the explosions of missiles and the ricochet of laser beams off the hull of the _Lesseps_ had shaken him violently more than just physically. It had been a test of his leadership capabilities, and he felt fortunate in that he had made it to safety without the loss of a crew member. The same could not be said for the _Petrie_. Waltfeld would be proud of him for that.

Yet in other ways he felt like he had failed, if only for the facts that the _Lesseps_ had been damaged heavily and that he did retreat—_even though_ it was in the best interest for all in that losing battle, and _even though_ it was at his commander's behest. Still he should have been able to do more. Never had he felt so completely helpless as when he heard Waltfeld give the order to retreat, and knew his commander planned to sacrifice himself to the _Archangel_'s gundam pilot. With shame he recalled he had let that feeling be revealed in his tone of voice, if only for a moment.

But if he were honest, he was only ashamed for the sakes of the men who had been placed in his charge.

As for himself, he had nearly lost something he never realized he valued so much. In such a case, was fear not an entirely rational reaction?

A low groan in the bed beside him brought him wide awake. His head snapped up and he started in his chair, but a subconscious uncertainty made him hesitate and not reach out to Waltfeld.

"Commander?" he said in a tentative voice. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

"I hear you, DaCosta," came the gravelly response. Waltfeld breathed heavily and his right eye remained closed, but DaCosta could see it moving beneath its lid as his commander tried to gain some understanding of his surroundings, like a Lazarus returned from the dead—which wasn't so off the mark. His speech was thick from disuse, but there was still a wry edge to it just like there had been before that relieved DaCosta.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital ward at Gibraltar."

"At the edge of the world . . ."

Missing the reference, sure it must be the morphine and the fatigue speaking, DaCosta said, "A long way from Banadiya, anyway."

Waltfeld fought to open his eyes, and DaCosta felt that prickle of dread again: that he should be the one to explain to his commander why the left one failed to open, and always would, and why he no longer felt his left arm when he tried to move it. How did that saying go? He didn't know how best to break the bad news, so he might as well just say it. He just wasn't sure if, coming from him, it would be the best or worst he could do for his commander.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He tried not to look at the bandages that covered the left side of Waltfeld's face, or his left shoulder. "Commander, I'm afraid I have something to tell you that will come as a shock at first, but when they found you on the battlefield—"

"She's gone, isn't she?"

His question took DaCosta aback; he wasn't sure how to answer right away. In the chaos he had practically forgotten the commander's copilot, and unspoken lover, Aisha—as though at the moment of her death she had ceased to be for him. As though subconsciously he had convinced himself it would be easier that way.

"Y-yes, sir," he said, suddenly solemn. "There wasn't even a body to recover. . . ."

Waltfeld merely sighed in response.

"I was actually talking about yourself," DaCosta continued. "Your arm—"

"Was blown off in the explosion. I know."

"I wasn't going to say it quite like that—"

"For God's sake, DaCosta, don't try to sugarcoat it for me. That's what happened, isn't it? I realized that when I regained consciousness, and I've been trying to figure out why while you've been sitting there dreaming . . ."

He tried to prop himself up with one elbow, and even that little bit of movement seemed to take a great deal of effort he fought not to show. The IV tubes got in the way, and the vitals monitor beeped a bit faster. "Hey. Don't overdo it in your condition," DaCosta told him, standing, and reached beside the other for the remote that would adjust the angle of the bed.

"Now you're ordering me around," Waltfeld grumbled. "I wouldn't be in this condition if it weren't for you."

"Excuse me?"

DaCosta started as the commander's hand shot out and grabbed the front of his jacket in a fist. Despite being unconscious for the last couple of days, his grip was as strong as ever, as was his resolve as he used it as leverage to hoist himself up; and DaCosta was sure if Waltfeld had still had his other arm he would have gotten punched. "You insubordinate son of a bitch," he growled at DaCosta. "I leave you at the helm of my ship and this is the thanks I get?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I followed your orders to the letter, Commander, and you didn't say anything about leaving you out there to die—"

"Did I have to spell it out for you, asshole? That was what you were supposed to do!"

"I know this is just the drugs speaking. You're under stress and not yourself—"

"Not myself? No, DaCosta, _this_—" He managed to indicate his injuries. "—is not myself. All right? I was supposed to go out in flames, not end up on some disabled veterans list—"

"_Why?_" DaCosta raised his voice. "So you could prove your point to some goddamn kid?"

"So what if I was! That was my choice. Not that it matters anymore." Waltfeld forced a dark laugh, gritting through his teeth, "I don't know if I should blame you, DaCosta, or some cruel impartiality of fate, but now it's meaningless. Goddamn meaningless. . . ."

DaCosta narrowed his eyes. "And if you had joined Aisha out there it would have meant something? Just like all those other BuCUE and ZuOOT pilots' deaths meant something?"

"Yes!"

"So you're so important you have that right to just throw your life away in some great philosophical battle that solves absolutely nothing? Yeah, that'll get you remembered! Open your eyes, Commander! Does it look like ZAFT is any closer to peace because of what you did? Is this war any closer to being over?"

"She didn't deserve to die in vain—"

"And what about us, Commander! Huh? What about these men who've followed you all over the goddamn globe because they love you and all you stand for? What were they supposed to do without you!" DaCosta lowered his eyes, unable to say the words to his commander's face, and said through gritted teeth, "What am _I_ supposed to do without you?"

DaCosta could sense the mild surprise cross the other's features, though his grip did not weaken. Suddenly, inexplicably, his throat burned a little, but he went on as though he felt nothing out of the ordinary. "I'm not as strong as you want me to be, sir. I can't lead these men near as well as you have. I don't know if it's your charisma I lack, or your madness or what, but there's no way I could replace you, not the way you want me to. Not now."

"What are you trying to say?"

Was it the morphine that made him so dense? DaCosta forced a laugh, though somehow it turned into a sob that took him completely by surprise. "I'm saying I need you, you self-righteous bastard. ZAFT still needs you. And if you ever try to kill yourself again, I swear, I might just do it for you."

Waltfeld fixed him a hard stare. He lowered his voice. "That's mutiny you're talking, DaCosta."

"I know. So help me out here, will you, sir?"

At that moment the door latch clicked and an officer entered with a doctor close on his heels. When he saw DaCosta locked in Waltfeld's grip, the two as near fisticuffs as their situations would allow, he seemed to vacillate between which one to turn to for orders. "Sirs?" he said tentatively, covering his bases, "Is everything all right here?"

Waltfeld let go and elevated the head of the bed.

"Just peachy," he muttered out of the side of his mouth, but his eyes waited for DaCosta to step up.

DaCosta turned to the newcomers. "Everything's fine here," he told both of them at once with a small sigh. "I was just explaining the situation to Commander Waltfeld. His reaction was understandable and we both have ourselves under control now."

When they had gone, albeit a bit reluctantly, Waltfeld attempted a crooked smile. "And you say you lack authority—"

"I never said that." But DaCosta no longer felt like arguing, and the choked sensation was dissipating in a disconnected sort of way.

He said instead: "The ZAFT Council still believes you're dead, and I have no intention of correcting them."

"They can breathe easier," Waltfeld grumbled, "now that they don't have the Desert Tiger to apologize for anymore, in other words. I wonder what incompetents they will send to replace me."

"To replace us. I won't be returning to Banadiya. I know a good portion of the _Lesseps_ crew won't either."

Waltfeld turned his head toward the other in mild surprise. "Then where will you go? You can't just drop off the face of the Earth."

"On the contrary." Suddenly self-conscious, DaCosta lowered his voice and leaned over the commander. "We'll take you back with us," he said in a hushed voice, "to the PLANTs. I said they think you died on the field, but even ghosts have ships to haunt."

Waltfeld fixed him with a sharp gaze. "What do you have in mind?"

"A new ship of Zala's called the _Eternal_—an apt name for the ship of a man who's returned from the dead." DaCosta added as though on second thought, "Unless, of course, you're planning on sitting here feeling sorry for yourself while the whole war effort goes to hell without you. . . ."

That got the reaction he had intended, an indignant glare that held unspoken curses just below the surface at the mere thought that DaCosta could suggest such a thing. The lieutenant allowed himself a smug smile as he straightened and stood back. Waltfeld needn't say anything more: that look was enough to tell DaCosta his old commander would be back in no time.

"You know, you'd make a shitty salesman, DaCosta," he muttered after a moment.

"Why do you think I ended up here?"

"For that matter, that insolent attitude doesn't win you points as an officer, either."

"I learned from the master," DaCosta said with a lopsided grin, and Waltfeld couldn't help cracking a pained smile as well.


	6. No Sugar Tonight

Title: No Sugar Tonight  
Characters: Waltfeld, DaCosta  
Words: 899   
Warnings: spoilers episode 21, dark humor, The Guess Who as elegy   
Summary: They brought no flowers for the dead, but an offering with a longer history behind it.

* * *

"Here lies the greatest LaGOWE copilot I ever knew, and certainly the sexiest."

Perhaps unsure of whether it would be appropriate to add anything to Waltfeld's statement, DaCosta just smiled as he looked solemnly down.

The spotless blue sky and bright green of the grassy hill within the PLANT was a sharp contrast to the faded browns and reds of the desert's palette in which the three of them had last met. An Elysian field of sorts for the survivors, it was a fitting resting place for the souls of those ZAFT patriots who had lost their lives in the long, bloody war that they believed—and was, in fact—a struggle to define their right to exist. Waltfeld still wasn't sure if that had been Aisha's reason for fighting as well or not. As likely as not, he had had as much to do with it as any ideology.

That thought brought with it a sharp pang of regret, but he quickly stifled it. Aisha would have chided him for it were she there. She would have been thankful to know he had survived; hell, for all he knew, she may have been the reason he was still breathing; she had not been a jealous person while alive. Even her smiling photograph image leaning against the base of the black granite headstone seemed to be blessing him with the affection immortalized in it at its taking.

Sometimes it was difficult to face alone.

He turned toward his companion with a smile. "Thanks for coming with me today, DaCosta."

"It's no trouble at all. I wanted to come here and pay my respects to our comrades, but didn't really feel like making the trip alone."

They came with no flowers for the dead, nothing so traditional as that, but rather something from an older tradition perhaps—an offering with a longer history behind it, or at least in homage of it.

"Aisha would have appreciated your being here. I think she had a bit of a soft spot for you. . . ."

DaCosta shot him a look full of doubt, and though it wasn't always easy to tell with his complexion his cheeks seemed to redden faintly. He was probably trying to determine whether Waltfeld were serious.

"I never knew her that well," he said to the grave stone. "Not as well as I would have liked. But I like to think that, vicariously, we were good friends, even if we never spoke more than a few words to one another at a time." He shrugged. "In a way, we knew each other through you."

Waltfeld shot him a queer look. He couldn't help himself: DaCosta was always so stiff . . . "You insinuating something between us I should know about?"

DaCosta started. "N-now wait a second, I didn't mean anything crude—"

Waltfeld laughed at his reaction. "Come on, DaCosta, I was just pulling your leg." He elbowed his companion with his left arm in jest, and it made DaCosta wince.

"Sorry, I just don't know if this is the right place for that."

"Don't worry about it. If Aisha is rolling in her grave—wherever that may be—I know she would want it to be with laughter."

Not quite solemn, but in a sudden important manner, Waltfeld raised the thermos he held in his right hand as though saluting Aisha's plaque and photograph.

"For though the temporal body returns to the Earth whence it came," he said, "we know you are here in spirit. For the soul remains as eternal and present and unforgiving as the cold vacuum of space. We take comfort in the fact that the dead have won peace, and that though they may be in darkness they can see. And though that may be all well and good, we also pray we may have a while yet before we experience that for ourselves." He smiled to himself. "I know you'll pardon me that little bit of selfishness on my part, love."

DaCosta raised the thermos lid he held in his hand, and Waltfeld said, "After all, there'll be no sugar tonight in my coffee—"

"No sugar tonight in my tea—" DaCosta supplied.

"No sugar to stand beside me," they said together; "no sugar to run with me."

In the Classical fashion they tipped their respective containers to let the contents dribble down on the lawn in front of the grave stone. Except instead of wine, it was coffee they offered to appease the souls of the dead. After all, the intent was the same, but wine would not recall the particular muskiness of the desert that somehow stuck to their clothes through no matter how many washes; or the way food even tasted better and simply being alive at the end of the day somehow seemed to mean more in the dusty streets; or the sunsets they watched over the dunes and rugged brown hills, when they sat on the roof sipping coffee and watched the real sky that made one feel so small change from one shade of red to another.

The two did not salute, but instead raised their respective containers in a kind of toast. "Here's looking at you, kid," Waltfeld said and took a long drink from his thermos; and DaCosta uttered a hearty "Amen" over the lip of its lid before downing his portion like others might down shots of vodka.


	7. Once and Future King

Title: Once and Future King   
Characters: DaCosta, Waltfeld   
Words: 1055   
Warnings: spoilers episode 41?   
Summary: With one working for Chairman Zala, the other on the run, metaphors have to suffice.

* * *

The bell above the door chimed when it opened, the sounds of the street in the PLANT drifting momentarily through the door, and the barman looked up from the glass he was polishing to welcome the new customer. It was early in the day yet, not even lunch hour, but there were already a few early diners seated at the long, old-fashioned walnut bar. 

DaCosta took a seat two down from the one patron who sat with his back to the window—the one who hadn't glanced over his shoulder in curiosity when the door bell had chimed. 

The patron with the long overcoat and scruffy brown hair, overgrown sideburns, who sat hunched over nothing but a cup of black coffee. 

DaCosta pretended not to notice his neighbor as the barman passed him a lunch menu. 

"Might I make a recommendation?" came the familiar voice next to him when the barman had left, while DaCosta pretended to look over his options. 

He glanced up out of the corner of his eye, to meet Waltfeld's good one winking back at him. 

"This place makes one—if you'll pardon the expression—one damn fine cup of coffee." 

DaCosta turned stubbornly back to the menu. It wouldn't do him good to let on even to passing strangers that he knew the patron beside him, but it had been too long since he'd last talked to his commander face-to-face, let alone in person. It was difficult to remain indifferent. 

Yet somehow DaCosta managed. 

"What if you don't like coffee?" he said to the menu. 

"Nonsense. Everyone likes coffee." 

As though to illustrate, he could see, out of the corner of his eye, Waltfeld picking up his cup to take another sip. He had changed since they parted ways, this man once dubbed the Desert Tiger. The carved Algerian cane that hung on the lip of the bar drew DaCosta's eye. The commander he had once believed unbreakable and larger than life had returned to the PLANTs missing an eye and an arm, and had difficulty walking without that cane, the legacy left by shrapnel wounds. Yet he still sounded exactly the same, the old humor DaCosta missed intact. 

No, it was he, DaCosta, who had changed. Traded his ZAFT uniform in for a business suit and long coat, an officer's comfort for a cramped apartment on the sad side of town, and his honor for a cause more worthy. 

And his gun felt more than ever like it was burning a hole in his pocket. 

"Although, these are tense times," Waltfeld murmured as though reading his mind. "Seems the masses are looking for something a bit stiffer to chase down these bitter pills they have to swallow." 

"The masses? Or the ones who are manufacturing those pills?" 

Waltfeld paused, about to take a sip, and lowered the cup again. "Touche." 

The theme song of a midday news program rang loudly from the television above the bar for a few seconds, but the volume of the program itself was low, the other patrons reading the subtitles. 

"I had this dove I'd been watching outside my place," DaCosta said suddenly. "Watching it build its nest, hatch its eggs, feed its young. I thought it was doing so well, I thought it would stay safe where it was, until I woke yesterday to find it dead." 

If Waltfeld was surprised by this news, he hid it well. 

"Is this the first you've heard of it?" 

"A dead dove? It doesn't sound like something that would be deemed 'newsworthy.'" 

But he must have expected it all the same. His tone seemed to say as much. That it had been inevitable Siegel Clyne would be found and assassinated, that they could not hide him forever no matter how they tried. And that he had expected the Chairman would keep it from the media. 

From Waltfeld as well, apparently. Apparently such things were not part of their regular communications. 

"And the fledglings?" he said. "What happened to them?" 

"They're still alive and well—not yet done singing—but they're ready to fly and they can't sit around waiting much longer, just hoping their luck will hold out. They need more than just hope, something. . . ." 

"Something eternal?" 

". . . Yeah." 

DaCosta said no more as the barman returned to take his order. 

It must have been the formal way in which he ordered—without thinking; it was simply ingrained in him—that made the barman ask him if he was with the military. 

For a moment, DaCosta's heart skipped a beat. He wondered if Waltfeld's did as well. 

"Used to be," DaCosta said quickly. "Back on Earth. But I managed to get out before things turned too sour." 

"Ever thought about going back? You know, ZAFT could use as many able, experienced men as ever now." 

Did he ever think about going back? DaCosta almost laughed. Only every day, but not in a way the barman would understand. 

"Sometimes," he said instead, conscious of Waltfeld's good eye on him. "But it just never felt the same after our commander was killed in action. Something died in all of us when he did." 

"He must have been one hell of a commander," said the barman. 

DaCosta smiled. The man really had no idea. 

He turned to Waltfeld, who simply stared back with an unreadable smile, his wit failing him this time. 

"He sure was." 

And DaCosta could not wait to have him back. 

A crooked smile tugged at Waltfeld's lips as he laid a few bills on the bar beside his unfinished cup of coffee. His hand seemed heavy on the wood to DaCosta as he pulled himself with an effort to his feet, heavy with a sense of finality the former lieutenant was loath to relive. 

But it was only temporary, as Waltfeld told him before he turned to the door, using his new handicap as an excuse to lean in: "You keep an eye on your birds and I guarantee you, they'll be flying on their own in no time." 

It took everything DaCosta had not to return the salute he caught just barely in the way his commander raised his cane from its resting place; but he had only to remind himself, there would be plenty more opportunities for that in the future. 


End file.
